


Who's in Baseball Prompt Fills

by Nehszriah



Series: Who's in Baseball? [3]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sports, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Gratuitous Americanisms, Kid Fic, MLB AU, Prompt Fic, Workplace Relationship, baseball AU, even I admit this is pretty weird but idc, minor sports jargon, sports AU, will add more characters as time goes on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2018-12-30 15:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12111366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehszriah/pseuds/Nehszriah
Summary: Prompt fills off tumblr involving UK expats John Shea Smith and Clara Oswald as they coach and manage the small-market expansion MLB team the Quad City Gallifreyans while building a relationship, and later a life, with one another in the meantime.Prior reading of the rest of the series is **highly** recommended; knowledge of baseball is not necessary.





	1. Accidental First Date at Wrigley Field

**Author's Note:**

> Due to expanded interest in my MLB Baseball AU, "Who's in Baseball?", I've decided to post some of the prompt fills I've gotten on tumblr over here. They take place during the previous stories (which are kinda old now, apologies), as well as after the stories, so please be sure to read "Who's On First?" and "Who Came Out of Left Field?" before reading this if you don't want to either be super-confused or get hit with in-fic spoilers.
> 
> A visualization of John and Clara in this AU can be found here: http://randomthunk.tumblr.com/post/165354184941/

It was five-thirty in the morning when the Doctor woke up to the light being turned on in his room only two feet from his face.

“What the fuck, Stalkingwolf, can’t you go to the can without turning on all the lights like a little brat?” he grunted, shoving a pillow over his head. As far as roommates went, the Doctor found his to be a normally-agreeable guy, but getting up any time before nine after an extra-inning night game was nothing short of torture.

“Selectively deaf too—it’s like we never left the office,” Jimmy grumbled. He opened the door to the room and found Clara there, standing impatiently in the hallway. “Hey Miss Oswald; what are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d come in for the game today, but I think I was a little overzealous when it came to the flight time,” she admitted. The bench coach turned around sleepily and shuffled back over to his bed.

“Your turn; nothing in my contract about showing her around Chicago.”

“Nothing in mine either,” the Doctor replied.

“…but there _is_ the fact you promised to be nice to me,” Clara mentioned, sitting down on the end of the manager’s bed. “I mean, I _can_ wander about by myself, but five-foot-one and all alone—you know how that looks.”

The Doctor glared out from underneath his pillow at the smug grin that was currently sitting on the general manager’s face. It was all a load of crock; she was the one who could probably beat up a gang of thugs by swinging around her purse old-lady-style, meaning he _really_ didn’t want to know what sort of headlines they’d make if she was actually fighting back properly. Rolling out of bed, he padded over to his suitcase and fished out his slacks and shirt for the day.

“Pick your boxers to match the TARDIS or was it your pants that were the official color swatch when choosing the paint?” Clara chuckled. Looking down at what he was wearing, the Doctor wasn’t even awake enough to cover himself and instead flipped her his middle finger.

Once the Doctor’s clothes were on and the melt from the room’s ice bucket dumped all over Stalkingwolf, he and Clara took the Red Line down to Wrigley Field, stopping for a quick bite to go at a nearby McDonald’s. They took it in the ballpark with them, flashing the security guards their credentials on the way in, and found a spot in the outfield bleachers to sit and eat.

“What’s with the lack of seats there?” Clara asked, pointing towards an empty gap in the seating. She had finished her food and was now looking about, getting the chance to really _look_ at the stadium with its lack of fans and personnel wandering around. “Never asked, because I thought it would be obvious after a while, but I can’t seem to figure it out.”

“That’s because you never played,” the Doctor smirked. “That’s right about where the batter has to look when he’s watching a pitch that’s coming at him. It’s not as difficult to see the ball against darker surfaces, especially during day games, so there are gaps right there in all the ballparks.”

“Oh, I recall something similar in cricket,” she nodded, mentally jotting the information down.

“Cricket? You don’t seem class-conscious enough for cricket.”

“Cultural assimilation, mainly,” she defended. Standing up, she wadded the paper bag that had their food and empty wrappers and began to walk towards the aisle staircase. “So, are you going to show me around the oldest National League ballpark or am I going to give myself the grand tour alone?”

“I don’t know _everything_ about _every_ ballpark, Clara,” the Doctor said, following close behind. “Besides, aren’t we technically trespassing if the owners aren’t even awake yet?”

“Security knows we’re here, and they even let us bring in outside food—I think we’re safe,” she grinned. They meandered over towards the concourse and threw away their trash in the first garbage can they came across. It was then that Clara held out her hand, looking up at her companion. “You sure? I think we might be able to get inside the scoreboard if we’re sneaky enough.”

“What a sense of adventure you have, Clara Oswald,” he teased. Instead of taking her hand, he extended his arm, letting her hold on as they began to explore what would have been virtually impossible during game time. They meandered along the concourse, it feeling far too empty to be natural, passing by unmanned concession stands and shuttered up merchandise stalls. "See? It's not terribly different from football stadiums at home."

"I guess it depends on your definition of home," she said casually, her line of sight off across the field.

"Where I'm most comfortable, I suppose." He turned and led her down the steps into the on-deck circle seats--the closest to the field--and pointed. "See? That's roughly what the batter sees when pitching. Putting advertising or artwork there would only make things less visible and more dangerous."

"Yikes, you're right," she said. "That could be dangerous for anyone behind the plate. It's interesting how there are things that I don't know, even though I'm working the inner bowels of the sport."

"Some things are so second-nature to people that it's not even worth a thought," the Doctor shrugged. "Hey, do you want to go see the ivy on the outfield walls? Bet you I can jump high enough to reach the basket." Clara adjusted her focus to see the foliage along the outfield, as well as the chainlink fencing jutting out from the top to keep people from falling onto the field.

"You're on."

Turned out, he couldn't, even with a running start, and instead threw himself into the ivy-hidden, very solid, brick wall.


	2. Uncle John and Susan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following takes place after ch. 3 of Who's on First?, the prompt being one of the Foremans finding out about John and Clara.

Susan leaned back in her chair and stretched, attempting to chase the sleep from her limbs. Being president and CEO of a ballclub was exhausting, especially when she still had to manage the family printing company on top of it all, and she really felt she didn’t get enough credit. She’d never admit it, but she was the Foreman that did all the work, not her grandfather, and that was fine. The decades of work he had put in over his life had earned him a little bit of false credit in her eyes and that was what mattered.

Taking out her phone, Susan went to Facebook to check her feed before tending to her games. Little had happened since she last checked it thanks to it being in the middle of the work day, though there was one thing, one very little yet _important_ thing that happened to catch her eye: the Doctor’s relationship status had changed.

“Oh my word, I don’t believe it…” she gasped. Quickly, she got out of her seat and slipped back into her shoes before dashing from her office and trying not to run as she went through the offices and towards the elevator that brought her straight down to the clubhouse level. She went straight to the Doctor’s office, completely ignoring the fact that there were many men wandering around fresh from either the showers or practice.

Bursting into his office, she nearly slammed the door behind her so as to keep the players from hearing. “Uncle John, you better say it’s Clara or I’m going to scream.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he asked, genuinely confused. “What better be Clara?”

“I just saw your relationship status—now tell me who it is and we won’t have to replace the shattered glass of your door-window.”

“For fuck’s sake, _yes_ , it’s Clara,” he grumbled. “We’re keeping it quiet—not secret, but quiet. She’s going to change her status in a couple days and nothing needs to be linked or tagged or whateverthehell it’s called.”

Susan then plopped herself down in a nearby chair, an excited grin on her face. “Okay, now, since when?”

“This afternoon,” he said. The Doctor looked away, trying to seem busy with whatever was on his computer screen. “We accidentally kissed in front of the team and, well, we talked about it and we decided to try it out. No pressure or anything like that.”

“I’ve been wanting an aunt out of you for as long as I can remember, so don’t screw this up,” she scolded. “Your past attempts haven’t exactly been quality family material.”

“For the record: the last one was legitimately _bananas_ and most of the others were only friends, sometimes with benefits. The only one of them I nearly made the mistake of getting hitched to was the ditz, and I was going through a phase if you recall correctly. Besides, I’m not your real uncle.”

“Real enough to me!” she pouted. “Now go and be happy and make a bazillion adorable babies so I can play with them.”

“I don’t think that’s physically possible,” he snarked. “Since when are you so baby-happy?”

“Since I might have cousins,” she stated. “I always wanted cousins, and this is close as I’m going to get.”

“Susan, Clara and I have only been ‘dating’ for three _hours_ ,” the Doctor said. “Calm down; it might not even work out and we split before the season’s over.”

“Lies,” she said. “The team has a better chance of making the playoffs than the two of you have of splitting. Come on, Uncle John… you two were at one another’s throats not that long ago and now you’re _dating_. This is _it_!”

“Can you please let me get some work done?” he asked, voice beginning to wear thin.

“Okay, but when can I tell everyone else?”

“Easy: you _don’t_ ,” he replied. “We’re keeping things _quiet_.”

“You are _no fun_.”

“Don’t you have some plants to water in your office? I think I can hear them calling out for something to drink as we speak.”

“Jerk,” Susan scoffed. She stood up and grabbed hold of the door handle, flipping her honorary uncle the two-fingered salute.

“Yeah, yeah, love you too kiddo,” she said, trying to wave her off. He held off on actually smiling until she was out the door and shut it behind her. Only Susan would be excited by the idea of gaining a new aunt at the age of thirty-four, especially if the prospective aunt would be four years her junior. He really did get taken in by a quirky family.

 


	3. Food Coma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following takes place when Clara is pregnant with Alba and still working at the TARDIS. It's a short one, but I like it all the same.

“How many has she eaten?” the Doctor asked. He and Susan were standing in front of Clara’s desk, watching as she took a nap draped over the wooden surface while using her notebook computer and arm as a pillow. Next to her was the remnant of her lunch: a tray filled with crumpled hot dog wrappers and discarded globs of beanless chili.

“Today or this week?” Susan countered.

“This round,” he clarified. It was true that Clara had finally figured out _what_ it was she was craving soon as she stepped into the TARDIS after Spring Training wrapped up and the grills were first started for the season, but eating chili dogs to the extent that she was… well… it was ludicrous.

“Looks like about five or six from the carnage—ever think about getting one of those giant cans of Hormel and making some at home?”

“We do all the time.” The Doctor walked around the desk and tapped his wife on the shoulder. “Clara, darling, get up now.”

“Nnnh…” she muttered. “I’m working, you idiot.”

“I may be an idiot, but you’re the one who married me; get up.” He tried to help her to her feet, yet she was out like a light. “Okay, you left me no choice.” Kicking her chair away, the Doctor lifted Clara up with one arm around her waist and the other supporting her knees. He saw how truly ill-fitting the shirt she wore was—one of his that just barely gave her enough room for her growing stomach—and held her a little closer. “Susan, think you can take her home?”

“Give me a moment and I’ll stay with her,” she said. Susan reached for Clara’s bag and shoved in the laptop, tablet, and paper-binder that were on the desk before rushing out to go towards her own office. The Doctor carried Clara out into the hall, popping his head in the office next door on the way.

“Hey, Dorothy, can you field Clara’s calls today? I think she’s got the pregnants a bit worse than usual.”

“Gotcha, Professor,” the assistant general manager winked. “I’ll phone up after the game’s done and check in on if anything’s been offered or someone gets a cramp on the field.” She knocked on the top of her desk and turned back to her work.

“Dorothy, your desk is Formica,” the Doctor deadpanned.

“Make yourself scarce or I’ll clobber you,” she replied, picking up a metal bat that was leaning against the wall behind her. The two then grinned at one another and the Doctor went on, stopping at Susan’s door long enough for her to come out packed and ready to go.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Got all my gear and her’s—let’s get to the parking garage before too many early birds start showing up.”

They then began to navigate the offices, one laden with heavy bags and the other laden with his visibly pregnant wife. They were nearly to the elevator when the last person the Doctor wanted to see exited the copy room.

“Oh, don’t tell me you kept her up again last night with some kinky shit,” Harkness smirked. The Doctor simply rolled his eyes and got into the elevator.

“Susan, my hands are full.”

As the doors closed, the team’s president and CEO flipped their marketing manager her middle finger, adding in a “fuck off” for good measure. Jack smiled at himself and continued on with his work—things were going great.

 


	4. Sports Gossip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following takes place about mid-March the year Alba is born. If you're not sure who that is, please refer to the last few sections of "Who Came Out of Left Field?".

“Are we a sports show or a gossip column?” the reporter asked. He stared incredulously at the paper in front of him, nearly disgusted. “I’m not taking this—Julie, you do it.”

“I’m specifically _not_ covering it because I’m the goddamned token, and not due to a pretty face,” Julie sniped from across the table. “Besides, I was the one who got to report that the two of them got married in the first place—it’s your turn.”

“I put in fifteen years in the Premier League and it wasn’t because I wanted to talk about _baby bumps_ on American television!”

“Burke, cool it,” the producer warned. The headache was already setting in and it was only seven in the morning, during the recap meeting no less. “She’s right: it’s your turn, and considering she’s got one brother in the NFL and one in the MLB, she’s got a better grasp on the audience’s needs than a soccer player.”

“ _Football_ ,” Burke scowled. “You know, the fastest growing professional sport in America?”

“There—now you’re sounding more like the Gallifreyan manager. Excellent.”

“…except he is Scottish, and I am English. Besides, who cares about what happens in the Quad Cities anyhow? I took a look at a map and that region is _saturated_ with baseball teams—that thing is folding within the next five years anyhow.”

“…and for the next five years we are going to act as though we don’t believe that,” the producer finished. “Now, the Gallifreyans GM is pregnant, by her husband who happens to manage the team, and considering that could shake up the entire dynamic of the clubhouse, we are going to do a story on it, because people like that shit.”

“Not the people who watch sports shows.”

“We don’t know who watches sports shows, let alone what they watch otherwise.” The producer glanced around the table, attempting to gauge the rest of the crew’s reaction. Crickets. “Who knows; it could actually be interesting watching this story progress. Baseball is a family-oriented sport and to watch a family grow within its happenings could be good stuff. Cute stuff. Babies are cute.”

“Babies look like Humphrey Bogart.”

“Did I ask you, Bob?”

“No.”

“Okay then; Clara Smith-Oswald, GM of the Quad City Gallifreyans, is pregnant. There are no plans for her to quit her job, let alone take much time off at all, and her husband seems to be oddly silent on the matter.”

“Still don’t know why she married the man,” Julie frowned. “Brilliant mind, but a bad Scotch egg if I’ve ever seen one. John Smith-Oswald is an intolerable old man.”

“…must be the sex—she did get knocked up pretty quick if my math’s right. If they took each other’s names, it can’t be all that bad.”

“Let’s hear what the kid’s first words are, then we can pass judgement.”

“Alright, now that we’ve got that settled, let’s get on to _real_ sports news…”

* * *

Sitting in her office overlooking a bare field on the edge of Iowa farmland, Clara Smith-Oswald nearly growled as she shut off the television and threw the remote into the couch on the other side of the room. Yet _another_ report on how she was pregnant and not how she was one of the best GMs in the entire sport—it was getting irritating beyond belief. This was what it was like to be a woman who worked in sports, a married woman who wanted a family while working in sports, and things were going about as well as she had feared. It was no wonder few women attempted to do what she was currently in the process of—the scrutiny was unnecessary, annoying, and patronizing.

Whipping out her cell phone, she sent off a text to her husband. ‘ _espn caught on. one more on my shit list_.’ She kept the phone in her hand in wait for a reply text, only to get a call instead.

“James, I’m ready to kill something,” she hissed.

“ _Hey, reporters are people; you’re ready to kill some **one**_ ,” he replied, not missing a beat.

“They barely count; we could make the World Series this year and all they’ll be talking about is great or not great I look after having a baby three months prior. They’re _mocking me_ , James. How do professional women _athletes_ ignore the scrutiny?”

“ _Easy: they don’t, because no one in this country gives a rat’s ass about women’s sports_.” He then paused for a moment before chuckling lightly. “ _I hope you’re having a girl, because if so, then she will absolutely tear people to shreds. No daughter of yours will let anyone get away with trying to take the spotlight off of what’s really important_.”

“I hope so—a boy would probably get into fights about me.”

“ _A girl would too_.”

“Yeah, but still, no one’s talking about how you’re going to be a father.”

“ _Let them talk. The way I see it, they’re probably jealous that their wife isn’t the most brilliant GM to have never grown up in the game of baseball, possibly ever. Don’t worry_.”

“I’ll stop worrying when they shut up for good.”

“ _They’ll never shut up for good—shutting up means they’re dead, and even that’s not a given_.” Clara could hear distant shouting and laughing in the background, alerting her to the fact he was in the clubhouse. “ _Listen, you still up to come down tomorrow?_ ”

“Always.”

“ _Then save your rage and smash a couple effigies down here—it’ll be good for team morale_.”

“You’re on,” she giggled.

* * *

Sure enough, two days later, after a flight that was long on her pregnant bladder and a rejuvenating night in with her husband, Clara Smith-Oswald was standing in the Gallifreyans’ Spring Training clubhouse, wearing a rain poncho and swim goggles while brandishing a metal bat borrowed from a player’s t-ball playing kid. The entire team was there, laughing and cheering as another one of their bosses brought a box of grapefruit and a wooden stool into the center ring. The Doctor set them down, labeled a fruit with the marker in his pocket, and barely backed away before the poor citrus exploded and the metal bat rang against the stool.

ESPN, down.

The players all cackled, watching as their GM blew off steam. It had only been a matter of time before what they had all known since Christmas was deemed important enough by the national-level media, and this sort of reaction was fully expected.

 _Splat_ , _ding_ , FS1 destroyed.

 _Squish_ , _ping_ , no more MLB Network.

 ** _Woosh_**.

The entire clubhouse grew quiet as Clara missed the grapefruit representing NBC Sports. She stared at it, not having missed on purpose, wondering what happened. The grapefruit sat there, silently taunting her, until she took another swing.

Once McCrimmon remembered how to post a video, the hits on Facebook ended up going through the roof.

 


	5. Alba's Abrupt Arrival

Clara Smith-Oswald was going _bonkers_.

It was the hormones, she kept telling herself. It was the hormones and the way the baby had shifted so that it was pressing right down on her cervix and how she could barely walk and _ugh_. She knew that if she was _ever_ going to put herself through this torture again, it would involve this part being in the dead of winter. Instead it was June, late June, and she was sitting in her office at the TARDIS a sweaty, cranky, emotional, aggravated mess.

“This needs to be next week,” she griped. She was at the table while her husband was putting together their lunch—hot dogs heavily slathered in beanless chili, mustard, and chopped onions, along with hefty helpings of peanuts and French fries on the side, courtesy of the bemused kitchen staff—hands on her bloated stomach and a frown on her face.

“If this were next week, then you would be at the very beginning of a month-long break from work that I highly doubt is going to keep you any more sane,” the Doctor said. He gave Clara a plate with chili dogs and fries, setting the bag of peanuts next to it. “I know you and you are at a stage in your life where you need to work for yourself. Winter’s bad enough and hardly anything’s going on—taking time off in the middle of the season is going to attempt to kill you.”

“I blame your unnaturally-potent sperm for getting at me during what _should have been_ my infertile period,” she replied. She picked up one of the chili dogs and bit into it—Heaven if there was one. “I’d say you’re getting a vasectomy after this baby, but that’s probably a bit too hasty.”

“Thank you for your consideration.” He laughed inwardly as he sat down to eat his own lunch. As Clara had progressed through her pregnancy, she had grown rather snippy and irritable, which was something that the Doctor really could not bring himself to blame her for, or use it as a reason to refer to her as anything other than ‘pregnant and therefore not herself’. He cracked open a peanut shell, discarding it on a plate while eating the nuts from inside.

They finished their lunch, where Clara had two more chili dogs and the conversation was everywhere from how they needed to set up the guestroom for her father to how she was ready to flat-out commit murder on the section of the sports press that had been nosier than usual when it came to her and the baby. By the time the young lady from the kitchen staff came to fetch what remained on the cart, the Doctor was ready to kiss his wife goodbye for the afternoon and promised that that evening they would do nothing but relax at home. No work, no stress, only some good food, a DVD, and snuggling in bed until they fell asleep. She swore she’d hold him to it and gave him an affectionate tap on the rear as he left her side.

Once down in the clubhouse, however, the Doctor switched fully into manager mode. The series was tied and with the way that the Gallifreyans had dropped their loss the night before (which was honestly embarrassing due to how lopsided it was), they were going to need plenty of riling before kicking things into full gear for the game that night if they wanted to say goodbye to their visitors up two games to one. Despite the flack it got him, there was an undeniable rush he and the team both experienced during his cantankerous tirades meant to rile and pump up the players into a competitive frenzy. He was very good at it, which he guessed was part of why the Quad City Gallifreyans were even slightly competent despite their third-year status.

The game that day was scheduled for the mid-afternoon, with warmer-than-average temperatures and humidity thicker than should be legal thanks to not only the river, but a heavy rainstorm that had blown in during the wee hours of the morning leaving plenty of standing water throughout the area. It was already looking as though it would be terrible for players and spectators alike, yet that was something that the Doctor wasn’t very concerned about. Baseball had been played in worse conditions, and would be before the season was over with, and complaining about the weather now would only be asking for trouble.

Anthem sung, ceremonial first pitch thrown by a local solider home from her latest overseas tour, and away they went.

It was between the second and third innings when the Doctor felt the cell phone in his back pocket vibrate—his personal number, as his work number was in his front pocket. He took the phone out and checked to see who was calling; _Clara_.

“Yeah?”

“ _John, I’m having contractions, for real this time_ ,” she said. He pinched the bridge of his nose… shit.

“You’ve been having Braxton Hicks at least twice a week for the past three months,” he replied dully. “The doctor said you’re doing perfectly fine and should make it to your due date when they induce.”

“ _My uterus, my contractions, my labor!_ ”

“Give it another inning and we’ll talk, okay? Got to go—we’re starting up.”

“ ** _James_** _, I_ —” He hated to do it, whether she used his real name or not, but he hung up on her, putting the phone back in his pocket. The fake contractions Clara had been experiencing (that her obstetrician assured was perfectly normal) had already prompted so many phone calls during games that he had long lost count. Soon she’d feel better, as it usually took half an hour of panicking before she called and ten minutes later he’d get a text that they’d stopped.

Now he just needed to get through the next two weeks until she was due to have induced labor and everything would be fine.

Except, much to the Doctor’s chagrin, while the Gallifreyans were up to bat in the fourth, the batgirl that had been assigned to the dugout tapped him on the shoulder, worry on her face.

“Mr. Smith-Oswald? Mrs. Smith-Oswald is in the clubhouse and wants to talk to you. She said it was urgent.”

“What’s the matter?” he asked the teen. Two seconds and he could see that she was extremely uncomfortable with the situation. “Judeska? Judy? What does she want me for?” She simply pointed towards the clubhouse entrance, silently shaking her head.

Groaning, the Doctor told Stalkingwolf to cover for him and followed the batgirl into the clubhouse. It was there he found Clara, sitting on the floor outside his office, holding her stomach with a pained expression that had to of been the source of the teenager’s worry.

“Okay Clara, what’s wrong?” he asked, squatting down next to her. She was breathing heavily, beginning to sweat, and grabbed onto his upper arm like a vice.

“This is **_not_** Braxton Hicks,” she growled.

“Remember how we were taught to check at your last check-up because you have this so often?” he asked. She nodded. “Alright, I’m checking.” He reached down underneath the hem of her maxi skirt and felt around, growing pale once he reached between her legs. “Judy?”

“Yes, Mr. Smith-Oswald…?” the batgirl asked, having turned her head away respectfully.

“Go find Martha, _now_ ; Mrs. Smith-Oswald isn’t having Braxton Hicks contractions.”

“What… what’s that mean…?”

“These contractions are real—get the doctor!” The batgirl dashed from the office door and disappeared deep into the clubhouse, leaving the couple alone. Clara whimpered as her stomach tightened in pain, which caused her to clench tighter on her husband’s upper arm. “Shit, and of all the times, too; why didn’t you just go to the hospital?”

“…because I needed to prove you wrong,” she replied, glaring at him.

“Putting yourself and the baby at-risk is grounds enough, apparently.”

“Don’t you chastise me!” By now, the batgirl had arrived with Martha Smith-Jones, the head of their medical department, who was panicking in her own right.

“Did you call a cab to take her to the hospital?!” she asked.

“You’re a doctor!”

“John, I specialize in _kinesiology_ , not obstetrics!” Martha knelt down in front of Clara and checked for herself. “Damn it, a cab’s gonna have to wait if that's what I think it is. Alright, John, carry Clara. Judy? How good are you with blood?”

“Not very, ma’am. If I don’t get back and help Ray in the dugout…”

“Ray is going to have to pull on his big-boy pants for the time being; I won’t make you look at or handle much, but I will need your help since my assistants are either on vacation right now or need to be available for the team.” Martha dug a cell phone from her pocket and handed it to the teen. “First thing is calling a colleague I know who is at Genesis St. Luke’s today doing rounds.”

“We were going to go to Silvis,” the Doctor said as he picked up his wife. The three then capable of walking began the rush towards the medical section of the clubhouse, where there would at least be a cushioned table to place Clara on.

“Yes, and this baby doesn’t want to wait for even a ride to St. Luke's—of course any child that is the result of the two of you shagging all night is an impatient little pain.”

“I’m still here, ma’am—which number?”

“Judy, you’re fifteen and work in a men’s sporting league clubhouse, don’t give me that,” Martha frowned. “Just go to my favorites…”

Once Clara was on the cushioned examination table, things began to go incredibly quickly. Not even a half an hour had passed before there was plenty of cursing from Clara, vomiting from Judeska at the sight of blood and amniotic fluids, and a croaking, strained cry coming from the tiny newborn that was placed on her mother’s chest, shaking and irritated and not at all pleased about her change in environment.

“Oh gosh, Clara, look at her,” the Doctor breathed. He was splattered in things he didn’t really want to think about, his arms around his wife’s shoulders as she held their towel-swaddled daughter. “Our little girl… so perfect…”

“She is, isn’t she?” she sniffled. Tears began to stream from Clara’s eyes as she took in the sight of their child, melting away all her irritation and frustration, replacing them with pure joy. The little family, huddled together in their own little world, until the peace was broken by the batboy whom Judeska was supposed to be paired with running into the examination room, cursing loudly at the scene.

“Holy shit!” he cried out. “Coach! Stalkingwolf wanted me to get you, but… but…!” He was unable to continue, seeing his fellow teen still being sick in the wastebasket while being tended to by Martha, while blood and other stuff was smeared everywhere, including all over the three adults, making his own stomach lurch.

“Hon, just go,” Clara sighed. She pecked the Doctor and patted his leg. “Change your clothes and go back to the game. What inning is it, Ray?”

“…middle of the sixth…?”

“Then go along; Judy will let you know where Martha and I go when her friend gets here.”

“Are you sure?” he wondered.

“Go ahead—it’ll make a good story later.” She smiled a little and chuckled, “and we can use it as a guilt trip.”

“I like it.”

* * *

At the beginning of the seventh inning, the Doctor returned to the dugout, sporting a clean uniform and acting as though nothing had happened. While he kept the team together, pulling a comeback win out of them, Clara and Martha discreetly left the TARDIS through an employee entrance, bringing the baby with them to the local hospital to be checked over. It was only the following day, after the press was extremely confused as to why parts of the clubhouse were cordoned off during postgame, was there a press release distributed to the media about _why_ the medical wing had been off-limits.

Her name was Alba Jemma Smith-Oswald and it was not the last they would hear or see of her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always imagine Clara to crave a bunch of different ballpark foods, but the main thing that keeps coming to my mind is Detroit-style Coney dogs ( https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coney_Island_hot_dog#Detroit_style ), hence why I always seem to mention them. If you ever get the chance, I highly recommend at least a try.


	6. The Regimen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following takes place about a month and a half after Alba is born, so around early August in the Gallifreyans' third year. It also gets a little saucy towards the end.

“I’m going to do it, so stop laughing,” the Doctor argued, pointing with his spoon. He expected to be laughed at in the clubhouse, but to be mocked in his own home was unacceptable. Taking another scoop of his breakfast yogurt, he stuffed the food in his mouth and pretended to not be bothered. “I’m going to do it.”

“Sure you are,” Clara laughed. She laid Alba down in her car carrier and secured her in place. “Look at you: you’re nothing but skin and bones and an amazing arse. Don't risk the arse.”

“I’ve done the regimen before and I can do it again,” he argued. He was going to have to remember the arse comment, but for now, he was serious.

“Yeah, when you were twenty and at peak condition,” she teased. Clara picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder before walking around the island bar and kissing her husband. “Come on, or we’re going to be late. I am not going to be late on my first day back from maternity leave.”

“Fine,” he groused. He tossed the yogurt cup away, put the spoon in the dishwasher, and hooked the carrier over his arm, ready for the day to begin.

* * *

“What’s wrong, Coach?” one of the pitchers laughed. The Doctor was in the workout area of the clubhouse, struggling underneath a weightlifting bar that had only ten extra pounds stuck onto either end. It was a funny sight to see for certain, with his arms pale and thin as unbaked breadsticks and the slight paunch that plagued happily-married men towards middle-age.

“Fuck off,” he growled. He finished his reps and put the bar back on its perch, sitting up to rub his upper arms.

“You doing alright?” Martha asked. When she saw that the manager was starting to use the training equipment, of all the people she needed to watch out for, the head of the medical staff went and began following him around at all the machines, making sure he didn’t strain anything. “If you need to rest, there’s no shame in resting. What got you on this track, anyway?”

“I don’t have just one lady I have to take care of now,” he explained, keeping his voice low. “It’s an uneasy thought, but do you realize how _sore_ I was after the game last night? It was like I had a forty-pound weight strapped to my chest by the time Clara took Alba back.”

“Well, you need to get used to it,” she replied. “Weight resistance training always takes a little bit to feel the effects, so don’t worry.”

“I don’t have a little bit,” he frowned. “A little bit is ages when you’re talking about wee babies. Now… let’s get to that leg press.”

* * *

“Well, well, well… look at you… you’re headlining,” Clara chuckled as the Doctor walked into her office. She had SportsCenter on—which she muted, of course—and in the sidebar was a topic for further conversation that read “Baseball Baby Blues”. “You know, the one really has your accent down pat.”

“They can blow steam all they want; they’re just jealous they can’t take their daughters to work with them every day,” he snarked. He plucked Alba out of the papoose strapped to his chest and placed her down in her play pen before flopping into the chair across from Clara’s desk. “It’s only been two weeks since I started carrying her around and I’m still dead-tired.”

“It’ll get better,” she assured. Clara stood and walked around her desk, sitting down in her husband’s lap. Running a hand through his hair, she leaned in and kissed him steadily, moaning happily into his mouth. “I’ve noticed you’re sleeping through the night better; now you don’t get up unless Alba cries. It used to be you’d be up three or four times a night.”

“A good exercise’ll do that to you,” he replied. Trailing his fingers along her leg, he slipped his hand underneath the hem of her skirt and began massaging her thigh, making her giggle.

“She just got back, Professor—give Clara a break before you knock her up again,” Dorothy groaned as she walked into the office, papers in her hand. “Listen, I got a deal with the Padres I want you to look into, see if it’s worth pursuing.”

“Just set it on the desk,” Clara said idly, not looking up from the Doctor’s neck. He gave McShane a shit-eating grin as she set the papers down.

“So are the two of you going to have another, just so you can say you conceived in both offices?” she asked.

“Maybe, or maybe we got a box a Trojans in the desk drawer. You never know, now do you?” the Doctor replied, his grin growing wider. Dorothy just rolled her eyes and left the room, closing the door behind her so that no one else would accidentally be subject to their egregious display of affection.

* * *

“She go down okay?” the Doctor asked as Clara walked back into the living room. It was already October, and he was picking up Alba’s toys from the rug, putting them away in their box by the couch. Once he was done, he opened his arms and gave Clara a hug, leaning down to kiss her.

“Our little angel is asleep and well,” she replied. “Do you want to watch our movie down here or in the bedroom? I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to take advantage of the fact there’s no playoff game to watch.”

“I’d like to go the bedroom, but if we’re going to celebrate not watching a game, I think there are other things we can do than watch a movie,” he said. Without warning, he picked her up bridal-style and spun around as she clung to his neck.

“Oh! **_James_** , put me _down_!” she demanded. “I didn’t even think you could lift me up like this!”

“You weigh less than what I’m lifting now,” he explained. Pressing a kiss to Clara’s lips, the Doctor began walking towards the stairs.

“I’m still a bit sore,” she muttered, exhaling heavily. “Maybe some other night?”

“Is that normal?” he wondered, putting her down. “Not that I’m complaining or anything, but we’re in the offseason now, so if you need to see someone now’d be the time. I mean… it’s been over three months since you gave birth.”

“If it’s still the same at Christmas I’ll make an appointment in early January,” she said. “Now, what do you want? Do we want to laugh because it’s funny or laugh because it’s not supposed to be funny?”

“Your pick.”

* * *

It took until November, but Clara’s soreness went away to the point when the Doctor dropped Alba off for her biweekly afternoon with her cousin Susan, he came home to find the house completely dark. He looked around, trying to find his wife, only to discover that she was up in their bedroom, just drying off after a shower.

Scooping her up, he brought her the few feet it took to get to the bed and she pulled him down onto her. Soon his own clothes were off and she was urging him onward, commanding him to take charge and make her forget everything else that was going on in their lives. He did as he was told, but only after digging through the nightstand drawer for the little piece of equipment that would keep Alba their only child. Shit... he was going to have to start remember to buy them again, but there was still some leftover from the year before, and that was more than plenty for their needs.

It was a very good thing that their neighbors were half a mile in each direction, Clara thought as she melted into the mattress, letting out a strained shout with each thrust. She had never felt neglected, neither emotionally or sexually, since their engagement and the start of their marriage, but she couldn’t remember the sex having been _this good_ before they called it quits not long before their daughter was born. All she could do was lay there, moaning out his name while she held on for dear life. They came at nearly the same time and laid in one another’s arms afterwards, with Clara murmuring into the Doctor’s ear what she was planning on doing to him once she felt good enough to be the one doing the riding.

When Susan came over to the house to drop Alba back off, she found her honorary uncle and his wife snuggled up together on the living room couch. She knew what they had been up to, considering the cheeky look on the Doctor’s face and the dreamy, hazy one on Clara’s, but she didn’t say a word.

 


	7. The End and the Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally wrote this on November 2nd/3rd, 2016, immediately after the Chicago Cubs won the World Series. If you take this as a date-cementer, then Alba was born in late June 2016, as she is still a wee bab here.

The Doctor and Clara sat on the couch completely silent, flabbergasted at what they were witnessing. With their daughter sleeping peacefully in her playpen nearby due to the late-night hour, the couple watched as the commentators' mics were turned off and it was pure footage of celebrating ballplayers, jumping and hugging and crying at the feat they had just accomplished.

“I can’t believe it…” the Doctor marveled. He took a sip of his coffee, hand slightly shaky. “Well, I can, because I saw it, but _wow_ …”

“James, almost half the league’s teams are younger than this drought was long,” Clara said quietly. She had stopped writing in the notebook on her lap during the quick rain delay and and now found it useless. All she could do since then was stare in awe at what rapidly unfolded on the screen.

“There’s barely anyone alive from then,” he replied. He took out his phone and quickly pulled a page up. “We were still on our first Roosevelt, the Model-T _and_ General Motors were both less than a month old, and… frick… that was the year that Ian Fleming _and_ Buddy Ebsen were born.”

“…Buddy Ebsen…?”

“He was in a couple shows I watched a lot in reruns when I first got here—very American shows, trust me.”

“I figured as much.” Clara put her notebook on the coffee table and stared at the television, leaning into her husband as they continued watching the festivities. “This is going to change a lot, isn’t it?”

“It at least means that people can shut up about some mangy old goat and get on with life, with any luck,” the Doctor replied. Aside from the projectile-vomit of lore that the commentators had been throwing out during what felt like every inning of every game the Cubs had played and they had watched (and they _had_ been able to watch most of them thanks to the League’s insistent scheduling that enabled them to be sitting there in early November instead of late October), the Doctor had been sure to initiate Clara when it came to any and every bit of notable legends and supposed curses surrounding the new champions. It had been mostly a mid-to-top-end issue in reality, but that didn’t stop many people from believing that someone’s dismissed pet was to blame for the chronic mediocrity the team had wallowed in for decades. It all seemed very ridiculous to Clara, though it did make her think about some of the more colorful bits of lore and tradition when it came to football back in England.

Through the open kitchen window, the two could hear loud banging noises—whether it was fireworks or celebratory gunshots, neither wanted to find out—and it seemed like the night ahead was going to be a noisy one. With a large number of their neighbors having been life-long and generational Cubs fans before the Gallifreyans came to the Quad Cities, it made sense that they would still be behind the denizens of Wrigley Field… a team whose drought contained not only _their_ entire lives, but the lives of some of their parents and grandparents from birth to death. The Doctor stood and went to close the window, scowling once he did so.

108\. That’s how many stitches were on a baseball, and the Cubs just won in the tenth inning with eight runs. 108. He knew it was an auspicious number to different cultures in Asia all the way down to martial arts, and that wasn’t even the gist of it. Staring out the window into their darkened back yard, he thought of a scenario he was all too willing to ignore, yet it kept cropping up over and over during the postseason that had just come to a close.

“You know,” he said,” we wouldn’t survive more than twenty years if we failed to gain a World Series title due to how saturated the area is with baseball teams. Seventy-one years without an appearance and a hundred-eight without winning it… Chicago is lucky.”

“James, we’re not the 2001 Diamondbacks and I think the League understands that,” Clara mentioned, remaining on the living room couch. “How long has it been for Cleveland? The Brewers? The Mariners? Even the Twins are nursing the twenty-fifth straight year.”

“Cleveland’s just going to wallow as it always does, but they have the luxury of being an institution—we don’t,” the Doctor said as he returned to his wife’s side. “I can think of better institutions to be a part of, though it’s that long-time status that helps protect them. What if Alba ends up wanting to take over your job or mine or Susan’s or Jack’s? It won’t be there for her; we don’t know if we can hand the family business down or not.”

“You worry too much,” Clara scolded gently. She muted the television and put her feet up on the couch cushions, allowing the Doctor to lay on her legs and keep his head in her lap. Scratching his head, she contemplated how the Cubs winning would impact their fan base, given the now-muffled noises that were still happening outside. “At least we won’t ever need to worry about a name change, or need to use one of those Phillies-looking mascots because using ours would look bad.”

“That freak of nature hollow Muppet demon can stay far away from us if I have anything to say about it,” he growled into her thigh. “Susan’s call to use Freya the Bear was a good use of foresight considering no one can figure out what a Gallifreyan is supposed to actually be.”

“Be nice,” she teased.

“I will when the sod in that costume apologizes.”

The clock in the hall chimed midnight and the two remained on the couch, silently enjoying one another’s company now that their jobs were officially in off-season mode. There was still work to be done, yet it wouldn’t truly pick up again outside of winter meetings and hot-stove transactions until February. It wasn’t too long before Alba began flopping her arms about, upset that she discovered she was awake and not being held. The Doctor rolled off the couch and plucked the infant from her playpen, resting her gently against his chest.

“Don’t worry there, kiddo—there won’t be any monstrosities threatening you if Dad can help it,” he assured her. He kissed Clara on the lips, carefully bending down to reach her without allowing Alba to flop around. “Putting her to bed; it’s about time she went down properly.”

“As long as I can put you down in bed properly,” she chuckled. Letting her husband walk away with daughter in-arms, she watched the celebrations and forced, awkward interviews for a moment before turning the television off and following them up the stairs.

It was the end of an era, that was for sure, but it was the start of a new one as well, and that could possibly mean great things were in store for them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who else was a 1908 creation? Doctor Who's very own William Hartnell.
> 
> ...and honestly, it wouldn't have mattered to me if the 2016 Cubs had beaten my Detroit Tigers in a rematch of the 1945 World Series, because the fandom deserved it. I hope they have a ton of success in the upcoming years--three trips to the National League Championship and one World Series win between 2015-2017? I'm happy for them.
> 
> (And no, they (the national-level commentators) didn't shut up about the fcking goat.)


	8. Rainy Afternoon with Mommy and Alba

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alba isn't quite a year old yet in this prompt. Old enough to wobble and babble, but not old enough for conversation yet.

It was a rain-out, possibly throughout the entire weekday series and into the weekend. The rain that was falling then was light, a sprinkle really, completely playable, but there was a long, thin system coming threatening to pass over the area diagonally and stay in the Quad Cities for a couple days. Mass flooding wasn’t being called for, so most of the locals around were merely miserable that they hadn’t seen the sun for the past week. Considering people still talked about the “inland hurricane” that happened before she arrived, Clara simply shrugged off American weather as something that she’d never wholly understand.

She was tapping away at an email on her computer when her husband came into her office and unloaded the contents of the papoose into the playpen in the corner. Alba was sleepy, cranky, and not very aware of what was going on as the Doctor slid her out of her carrying case and laid her down in the pen. He took the empty papoose off, went over to kiss Clara on the lips, and slipped from the room to go weight train with the team under Medical Director Smith-Jones’s direct supervision. It was something that they were grateful to have, for not only did it keep him in shape, but it kept team morale up as they laughed at their coach trying to lift what they could despite being all sinew and skin and, in some cases, twice as old as them.

About half an hour passed before Alba finally had enough of sleeping and she sat straight up, wide awake and ready for play. She wobbled as she glanced around the room, realizing that she woke in a completely different setting than when she fell asleep. Sputtering sadly, she stood up with help from the mesh wall of her playpen and whimpered.

“Oh, don’t worry now—Mummy’s here,” Clara cooed. She went over to her daughter and scooped her up, cuddling her close against her chest. It didn’t have the effect desired, as Alba kept on protesting.

Well, at least she wasn’t wiggly-protesting. Her mother stood there and bounced her, trying to soothe the baby without resorting to calling the Doctor up from the fitness center. It didn’t matter how well she did while studying for her early childhood development degree; Clara knew she had a distinct disadvantage because she was _not_ the one the girl spent much of her waking hours with. It was good that James took such an interest in his daughter, especially for one who wasn’t very good with other people’s children (let alone hadn’t been overly-thrilled at the news of the pregnancy), but the side-effect was that when it was Mummy’s turn to be with the baby, the baby wasn’t too thrilled that it was Mummy handling her.

Alba’s diaper was clean, so Clara went into the small fridge built into the cupboard space and fetched a bottle. The twin-pigtailed child began to suck it down happily, though once that was done and she was put back down in the play pen, she sat down with a thud and sniffled, hugging her stuffed bear and turning it into a drool-and-formula-soaked mess.

“Alright, alright, put Freya down,” Clara groaned as she walked back over to the pen. She picked Alba up and the girl clung to her chest—that’s where she was used to being on her father, so that’s where she wanted to be _always_ , no matter which adult had her. Clara sat down at her computer and minimized the window where she was working on some stats compilations and brought up a web browser. All she needed to type was the letter N and Netflix autofilled in, bringing her exactly to the place she wanted to be.

A few clicks later and Thomas the Tank Engine was playing. It felt very different from when Clara had watched it when _she_ was a child, with the computer graphics instead of puppets and models, but it did the job and Alba was quickly engrossed in the story. The half hour program ended and it seemed as if Alba was asleep, but when her mother clicked out of the window she began to grow fussy again, only stopping when her show was brought back.

Now trapped, Clara leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, trying to concentrate on the rain beating against her office window with increased intensity. Rain was a nice sound. She held onto her daughter as she nestled in, waiting for whichever came first: a freshly showered husband to rescue her or the “Are you still watching?” prompt from Netflix to sink her further into toddler-friendly despair. There was work to be done, and she wasn’t about to get it done while Gordon was being pompous and Edward sassing back. She let her breathing slow, hoping it would help Alba fall back to sleep herself, when suddenly her baby was plucked from her grasp. Clara immediately woke up, finding the Doctor standing next to her as he slid a giggly Alba back into her papoose.

“You were sleeping,” he justified. Clara looked at the computer screen and saw that it had gone completely dark, power settings having kicked in and turned the machine off. “Are you alright?”

“I love that you take such a hands-on approach when it comes to raising Alba, but I think we need to get some DVDs for her instead of grinding everything to a halt just so she can watch something.”

“If she’s cranky, she usually just wants to be held, or she wants some idiot to cover his junk, nothing more,” he replied. She gave him a critical look, staring up at him underneath her brows.

“Too much holding and she’ll become too attached. Both of you will become hyper-dependent on one another and we’ll have issues once it comes time for her to start school.”

“I thought we were home-schooling her because of our jobs,” he whispered after covering the toddler’s ears. “We’d have to get a nanny!”

“No to a nanny, yes to home-schooling, but no I won’t be dealing with the two of you when it’s time to get work done and she has trouble leaving your lap,” she frowned. “For not being sure you’d be a good dad, you’re diving into this all-or-nothing.”

“Now that I’ve got my ladies, only the best will do,” he said. He bent down just enough so that Clara could give Alba a kiss, then him, and he walked off to leave her be, taking their giggly bundle of joy with him.

 


	9. The Parrot Stage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This particular chapter takes place the year Alba turns three, so right now she's an old two. It's also inspired by the fact that Spring Training occurs in very warm areas, only for the start of the season to take place oftentimes in cold, sometimes snowy, conditions across the United States (and Southern Ontario, even if they are generally warmer than a decent chunk of Canada).

The Dominicans were ready to revolt, the guys from Florida, Texas, and California were huddling by the heaters, the recent Cuban defector was confused, and the lone Canadian had no idea anything was even going on.

“Coach, it’s _freezing_ ,” one of the outfielders frowned. “It looks like we’re going to get _snow_.”

“We’ll be fine,” the Doctor insisted. Sure, it was unseasonably cold for early April, though it was not cold enough to cancel the day's festivities, especially since it was _Opening Day_. “Once you get out there and moving, you won't even feel it. Didn’t seem like you had that much of a problem during batting practice earlier.”

“Earlier the sun was out.”

“Get used to it.” The Doctor looked out on the field, seeing that it was lush and green—a testament to the skill of the grounds crew—and there were fans sitting in all sorts of seats. “Be glad the Expos are a thing of the past.”

“Expos!” Alba cheered, running up and down the length of the dugout. She was dressed warmly, in thick pants and a sweater and a puffy jacket that kept her arms from going all the way down and tiny mittens that one of the players' mothers knit especially for her. Brown pigtails poked out from underneath her Gallifreyans pompom hat, the strings on the sides bouncing as she moved about. “Daddy, what’s Expos?”

“The Washington Nationals, before they moved,” he replied. He then turned his attention back to the dissident player, an unsympathetic expression on his face. “Now are you going to keep on twisting your knickers or are we going to play a damned ball game?”

“Knickers!” Alba repeated, still zooming around the dugout. As someone from the local paper lured the Doctor out of his domain for an interview, the players all glanced uneasily at one another.

“Is she usually like this?” a newbie to the team wondered, motioning towards Alba. The veteran next to him leaned over, speaking lowly so as to not be heard.

“You were never subject to her watching you piss from her papoose.”

* * *

Clara was running around the offices frantically, attempting to get last-minute work done before they began the first game of the season. A nasty bout of the flu had ripped through the corporate end of the Gallifreyans’ staff and those that were left were struggling to keep pace.

“Harkness? How are you doing in there?” she called down the hall, coming out of her own office with a bunch of papers in her hands. A hand poked out of his office, giving a thumbs-up, and the general manager knew things were going as smooth as possible at the very least with Marketing (which for the day was partially merged with Park Operations). Clara then heard a chirping coming from her pocket, answering her cell phone as she powerwalked down to the office fax machine. “Do you _have_ to bug me _right now_?”

“ _I’m in a bind_.”

She glanced around the room and continued tapping a number on the fax machine. “What sort of bind that we’re talking about, James? I’m trying to make sure Arujo doesn’t get deported during _America the Beautiful_. What kind of a message would that send?”

“… _that you should make sure you double-check the expiration dates on players’ visas before signing them in the offseason?_ ”

“James, I’m being serious.”

“ _As am I—can you take Alba?_ ”

“I’m not taking Alba! We’re already drowning in disinfectant here! Our daughter is _not_ coming to the offices for at least another week!”

“ _Well, she’s in Parrot Mode and someone was heckling from the stands and now she’s shouting_ ,” he lowered his voice, growling into the receiver, “ ** _la puta_** _, over and over_.”

“And _what_ is wrong with ‘la puta’?” She hissed at the fax machine, which screeched at her that the line was busy. “So they’re mixing up the Irish and the Scottish again? Tell him to eat a baby or something. Call him a Yahoo.”

“ _It’s not a mix-up of satirists’ nationalities… they’re calling someone a whore_.”

“Then tell her to stop! For Pete’s sake, James! Discipline her!”

“… _but **Clara**_ …”

Clara frowned, pausing her redialing of the fax number for just a moment. “Put her on.” She continued resending the fax, waiting as the phone was transferred from husband to child.

“ _Yes, Mommy?_ ” Wow, she sounded chipper.

“Alba Jemma Smith-Oswald, either you are going to stop repeating everything you hear and be quiet for Daddy, or you are going to come up here and sit with Mommy.”

“… _but Mommy! I work! I coach happiness!_ ”

“…and how are you going to coach happiness if you’re up here with Mommy?”

“ _Not good_.”

“Exactly; now sit down and be quiet until the game starts, or no Happiness Coaching. Give the mobile back to Daddy, please.” The fax finally went through and she gathered the papers again, power-walking back to her office.

“ _Clara?_ ”

“Your dirty work is done,” she said. “Grow a spine, James. She’s not even three yet.”

“ _She won’t listen to me_ …”

“…more like you can’t bear to see her wibble that lip. Alba has you wrapped around her finger.”

“ _I’d rather that than her hate me_ ,” he argued with a chuckle.

“Uh-huh, and then she ends up hating _me_ as a result.” She sat down at her desk and took a breath. “Just don’t let her have her juice box until the fourth at the earliest or Jimmy’ll have to manage while you take her to the bathroom.”

“ _Yeah, I know_.” There was a stretch of silence, punctuated by ambient noise coming from the exterior of the ballpark. “ _Miss me?_ ”

“Get back to work or I’ll dock your pay,” she laughed.

“ _Yes, Boss_.”

* * *

The game itself was a solid win, with a two-run shot late by the team’s Canadian to put them on the board and score the only points of the night. Once all the press and players were headed home, the Doctor carried his sleepy daughter to the car and buckled her up in the sticker-covered booster seat in the back of his beat-up car. He glanced over at Clara’s motorcycle and frowned—she had insisted on taking it back to the house with her, since they came separate earlier in the day. He’d rather her not, but he wasn’t going to start telling her what to do _now_.

Alba fell asleep on the way home, meaning that her father woke her up when he dragged her back into the house. After a bath and reading some Burns poetry, the wee bairn was tucked in for the night, clutching her teddy bear, while the Doctor went to bed. He was beat, and knew that Clara would wake him when she got home.

Except when he woke up in the morning, the rest of the bed was decidedly cold and lacking Clara. The Doctor poked his head in Alba’s room—she was still sleeping—before going down stairs in search of his wife. Her bike was parked out in the driveway, though there was no sign of her until he passed the downstairs bathroom and heard the tell-tale sound of vomiting.

“Clara…?” he asked, knocking on the door. “The flu?”

“Yes,” she replied weakly. “Tell Dorothy she’s in charge today.”

“You want that hellion in charge?”

“She’s fine, just—” She was cut off by her own sickness, causing the Doctor to wait until she was done.

“Don’t worry; Dorothy’s in charge and I’m taking care of Alba for the day. Can you stay in there while I get ready for work?”

Clara knocked twice on the side of the vanity, signaling she understood. A couple hours passed and there was two more knocks, this time on the outside of the bathroom. She listened closely, hearing her husband and daughter leave the house, before opening the door.

There, sitting right in front of the doorway, was two piles of things awaiting her. One was a tea tray laden with everything needed for a hot cuppa, along with the kettle, some saltine crackers, and sports drink. The other pile was a folded up blanket, a pillow, her flannel nightgown, and Alba’s teddy bear Freya. There was a folded up piece of paper sitting with Freya, which Clara gently took and opened: it was a scribbly crayon drawing of her and her daughter kicking a soccer ball. On the bottom, the Doctor had helped the preschooler write “to Mommy, love Alba” in the girl’s large, shaky hand.

She felt better all of thirty-seven seconds before dry-heaving into the toilet again.

 


	10. Sleep No More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following takes place the year after last chapter.

As soon as the Doctor opened up the door, Alba went rushing into the hotel room, giggling excitedly. The three-year-old climbed up on the bed and began jumping, shrieking happily at the fun she was having now that it was officially Spring Training.

“Daddy, Daddy, look!” she said. “I bounce high!”

“Yes, you do bounce high,” he agreed, not really paying attention. He set their large suitcase down on the stand and hung his messenger bag on a nearby hook. “Alright then kiddo, bed time.”

“We just came here!” she protested, throwing her legs forward so that she bounced to a standstill on her rear end. “I wanna swim! I wanna visit! I wanna look around!”

“It’s after nine,” her father said. She slid off the bed and toddled towards the window, pulling back the ceiling-high curtain.

“The sun is up!”

“But the sun is headed to bed too, don’t you see?” The Doctor’s heart began to crack as he watched his little girl’s lower lip stick out and her blue eyes inflate. “None of that now—the sun will be sleeping by the time we’re ready.”

Alba continued to pout as her father picked her up and placed her down on the bed. He took off her backpack and set it down on the bed, afterwards helping her take her pigtails out of their braids and prying off her shoes. They went over to the suitcase and pulled out her tartan flannel nightgown, bringing it over to the bathroom. Getting the girl to take a shower was a hassle all on its own, and before long she was in her pajamas, pulling her coloring book and crayons out of her backpack and spreading them on the table.

“What did I say?” the Doctor reminded her. He pointed towards their bed and his daughter pouted.

“…but _you_ need sleep!” she said.

“…and I _will_ get some sleep after I take _my_ shower,” he explained. He watched as Alba fished her teddy bear out of her backpack and crawled up onto the bed. She pulled back the blankets and wiggled her way under them, placing the bear next to her as if she was going to sleep as well.

“Me and Freya think we should color while you shower, Daddy,” Alba insisted. “Why can’t we color?”

“Because you both need plenty of sleep to grow big and strong,” the Doctor said. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and squeezed one of her knees through the blankets, causing her to laugh. “You don’t want to be the shortest person in the TARDIS your whole life, do you?”

“No,” she replied with a grin. It faded though as she looked at the empty part of the bed. “Why can’t Mommy be here? She _always_ comes for Spring Training, doesn’t she?”

“She’ll be here soon enough,” he assured. “Mam just has some big GM meetings she has to attend where small children aren’t allowed, no matter how quietly they color.” He stood up and emptied his pockets on the nightstand before bending down to kiss his daughter on the forehead. “You and Freya just close your eyes and start thinking about all the fun things we get to do while we’re down here. Mam wants a full report when she catches up to us.”

“Okay, Daddy."

Giving her a small smile, the Doctor flicked Alba’s nose before turning off the lamp and going back through the suitcase. He got his pajama bottoms and a t-shirt and went into the bathroom, quickly taking his own shower. It was difficult to want to turn off the water, hot and soothing against his skin, and dry off in order to dress. He quietly opened the bathroom door and dropped his clothes in front of the closet, looking at himself in the mirror. His age always showed worse the night after a long flight, and he was glad that few ever got to see it. Only Clara and Alba were privy to such a sight—the only two that certainly never, ever judged him for it.

“I miss you too, Mommy,” Alba said, out of sight. The Doctor peered around the corner and saw that Alba was laying down in bed, holding his cell phone high above her head.

“ _Are you being a good girl for Daddy?_ ” Clara asked over the phone.

“Yeah, but do I _really_ have to go to bed already? It’s only eight-thirty at home!”

“ _It is, but you just traveled a very long way from home. You need to rest, or else you’re going to be too tired to play with all your friends tomorrow_.”

“Yeah, but no one else is here but Freya and Daddy,” Alba reasoned. “We had the same plane as Mister Garcia and Mister Jones and Gabby isn’t coming until next week, and Caeden isn’t coming until he has a break from school!”

“ _Now you can find all the fun stuff to do before they get there, so they don’t have to worry_ ,” Clara said. “ _It won’t be so bad—besides, you have to keep Daddy out of trouble, yeah? Can’t fall asleep while watching over Daddy, or else you’ll wake up to find him with a stuck finger_.”

“That was _terribibble_ ,” Alba groused, dramatically smacking her forehead. “Watching Daddy is hard work.”

“ _…and that’s why a good night’s sleep is important. Speaking of Daddy: is he still in the shower?_ ”

“I don’t hear water…” The Doctor took that as his cue, stepping into sight. “Daddy! You’re out!”

“What are you doing with my phone?” he asked.

“Mommy called, so I answered,” she said, holding it up. Her father took it, thanked her with another kiss to her cheek, and tucked her back in before turning the speaker off and putting the phone to his ear.

“Hey,” he said. “Things alright at the office?”

“ _Yeah; just checking in, since I know you turn in early after a long flight_ ,” she replied. “ _ **Has** she been behaving?_”

“Perfectly for her age,” he chuckled. “Can you do me a favor, while you’re still in the Quad Cities?”

“ _What’s that?_ ”

“Miss me.”

“ _Always_ ,” she smirked. They said goodbye and the Doctor hung up the phone, pulling a charger out of the suitcase in order to plug it in. Once it was charging, he got into bed, only to have Alba burrow her way underneath his arm.

“Goodnight, Daddy.”

“Good night, kiddo.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations are in order for the Houston Astros for winning their first World Series title ever last night, long-time Tiger Justin Verlander for winning with them after only a couple months with the club, and for the Chicago Cubs on their one-year anniversary of the World Series drought-breaking, which was longer than the Astros were in existence.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place not too long after the previous prompt, "Sleep No More".

Trying to lean back in his chair, the Doctor accidentally bumped his head on the cinderblock wall behind him. It wasn’t very hard, there was that at least, but it did make him mutter sourly as he tried his best to stretch in the cramped office that he was fairly sure was only supposed to be a closet before.

“Daddy… lineup…”

“In a moment, kiddo; your ol’ da needs to figure out which pudding brain stays here and which go with Mister Stalkingwolf to play the Orgrons.” He didn’t even need to lean over the desk to know that his daughter was rolling around on the carpet in boredom. She had her mother’s energy levels as well as his, which was really saying something, and it was too much to contain properly in the second-hand stadium’s grounds. Alba climbed up onto a chair and planted her hands on the desk, leaning forward trying to look at the laptop screen.

“Send new guys,” she said resolutely. “Mister Stalky-wolf take the trades and we take the returns and we both win.”

“Are you sure about that?” her father wondered. “It’s not as simple as you make it sound.”

“Stalky-wolf take the new guys, Daddy take the guys from last year, and no Daleks _or_ Ogrons winning.”

“For one, he’s _Mister_ Stalky-wolf; two, get over here and prove to me that’s what I should do.” The Doctor watched as Alba hopped off the chair, grabbed her teddy bear, and scuttled around the desk in order to climb up onto his lap. She positioned herself so that her toy sat in her lap and then reached over the keyboard, her fingers comically undersized for the machine. “Now, give me a line-up for each squad—you know who the off-season acquisitions are, yeah?”

“Yes!” Alba fiddled with the mousepad and clicked the cursor in each spot on the field diagram her father had pulled up. In each one, she slowly typed out names—at least, how she assumed the names were spelled—and a batting order, hunting and pecking as she went with her tongue stuck out in concentration. When she finished, she glanced up at the Doctor awaiting approval. He stared at his daughter’s work for a moment, analyzing it before raising his eyebrows in realization of what was before him.

“Wow… not bad,” he said. After writing his daughter’s plans on their corresponding lineup sheets, he handed her one and pat her on the head. “Can you go deliver this for me?”

“Right away!”

The young girl took the piece of paper and importantly walked out of the tiny office. She wandered around the near-empty clubhouse until she found Jimmy, the bench coach. Holding the delivery up, Alba gave the most serious face she could muster while having her teddy bear in one arm and still in pajamas at eight in the morning.

“Your dad figure out the lineups?” he wondered, taking the paper.

“Nuh-uh! I did!” she announced. “Daddy was taking too long, so I did it instead!”

Jimmy took another look at the handwriting on the paper. It was the Doctor’s handwriting, not Alba’s large and blocky print, so he knew it was sanctioned, yet he still couldn’t help be suspicious. “Did you have any help?”

“A little,” she admitted.

“...the Doctor really needs to scale back unless he wants everyone to know he let a preschooler take credit for his work…”

“…but _Freya_ helped!” the little girl insisted, holding up her bear with pride. “She’s _really good_ at baseball, Mister Stalky-wolf!”

“Stalk _ing_ wolf.”

“Yes! Stalky-wolf!” She then bounced off, leaving the bench manager be so that she could bug Daddy to go back to the hotel so they could change into their uniforms.

“She’s only three; she’s only three; _she’s only three_ …” he muttered lowly. The sooner her vocal abilities were fully-developed, the better.

* * *

Being that the games that day were split-squad, the media had wanted to get the opinions and insight of the Doctor and Jimmy Stalkingwolf at their respective fields, but the manager and bench coach waited until they were both at the spring training clubhouse in the press conference hall. The two men walked into the room, faced by all sixteen of the media people (a piddly amount compared to the numbers they’d get in the TARDIS), and sat down. Alba was with her father, as was per usual, and after placing her teddy bear in her own chair, smushed between the back and the table “in order to see properly”, she sat down next to the Doctor, kicking her feet happily.

“How do you feel coming off of two strong wins today?” one of the reporters inquired. The Doctor shrugged and shook his head.

“It’s still early in Spring Training—these are the days when Worst is First and blow-out scores are common. Next?”

“Can you describe the method in which you came to chose your rosters for the day?” another asked.

“What do you mean?”

“The way in which you split the team today it was very apparent you put the recent acquisitions against the Ogrons and the returning players against the Daleks. Was there any rhyme or reason to that, or was it a pure coincidence?”

“Well,” Jimmy began, “we were attempting to use it as a certain group-exercise…” He was nearly able to get in his entire excuse, concocted as he rode the team bus back, but Alba yanked on the microphone cord in front of her and brought the Doctor’s mic over to her.

“No one made up their minds, so Freya and me made them,” she said. The Doctor scrambled to get the mic, but it was too late: the reporters were stunned into silence. After a few moments of dead-quiet, the Doctor hardened his glare as he reset the microphone.

“What? Are you _surprised_ that my daughter has better baseball insight than a vast majority of the coaches, supporting staff, and journalists involved with this game?” he scoffed. “She gave me the rosters that won both games today, and I’m proud of her for it. Questions closed.” He then stood and lifted Alba out of her chair, carrying her over one shoulder, which left Jimmy to grouchily collect Freya and hand her over to the child while they walked through the hall.

“How long until you get in trouble?” the younger man wondered. The Doctor held up three fingers, which he began to count down. Once he was at zero, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket as it began to ring. He swiped through and held it up to his ear, afterwards holding it away from his ear, as his wife ranted at him from the other end. She hung up on him and Alba giggled.

“Mommy’s got her Angry Voice,” she noted.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Jimmy chuckled. He wasn’t the one in hot water with a boss—how the Doctor was _married_ to said boss was beyond his scope of things.

* * *

“What were you _thinking_ , James?!” Clara hissed. It was late that night, after Alba was curled up asleep in the rollaway bed and her parents were arguing in hushed voices in the bathroom. “You let her _decide the rosters?!_ And then you _admitted it?!_ ”

“What was I supposed to do?!” he retorted. “When I saw what she put together, I could see it was a stroke of genius!”

“It was _sheer luck_.”

“It was _sheer **talent**_. I’m not going to let a screaming genius go ignored…”

“…but she’s not even four yet,” she argued. Clara placed her hands on her hips and knit her brows. “Take her everywhere you like, I don’t care, but let her be a _kid_ , for crying out loud. She’s not a manager!”

“She is the daughter of two of the finest in the league; it was bound to show through early.”

“…and insulting the media to their faces?”

“That was just a bonus,” he grinned. The grin was replaced by a frown when his wife huffed in frustration and stormed from the bathroom as quietly as she possibly could. Clara went to bed, facing the window, which left the only option for the Doctor to slide in underneath the blankets and curl himself against her back.

“You’re despicable,” she muttered.

“I’m letting her know she’s great at something, and now it’s recorded so it’s not some lie we tell her as a moody teenager,” he explained. He kissed her hair before burying his nose in it—she smelled of office and Earl Grey. “Whether she becomes the next me or you or someone completely different, that’s fine, but she wanted to, and she enjoyed it, and the look she gave me when she was done… our daughter does not have a pudding brain, and if anything it’s telling everyone else they have to up their game.”

Clara rolled over and pressed their chests together, wrapping her arms around her husband’s thin frame. “You know, I’m only trying to make sure she doesn’t inherit your inflated ego.”

“…by what, ensuring that she inherited yours?” He smirked as she pinched his arm in retaliation; everything was alright. “How many people are able to say they were choosing starting lineups while still in training pants?”

“Not many, that’s for sure,” she murmured back. They began to kiss languidly, easing into sleep, though were interrupted by their tiny, fledgling ball coach crawling up into their bed in her sleep, nestling between her parents.

“Night Daddy. Night Mommy.”

“Good night, sweetie,” Clara whispered. Any more discussion was going to have to wait until morning.

 


	12. Betting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following takes place during the events of Who's in First, specifically after the first game of the season and towards the end of the fic. Guillemets denote Spanish being spoken, though translated into English, and there's some gratuitous Japanese/Engrish just regularly. Gotta love how multicultural the MLB is!

«I’m telling you, that’s what they said,» the young shortstop said in his native Spanish. He gave his coworkers a scowl, as they were all chuckling at him. No matter what he said, the story he had just regaled them with about their general manager, Clara Oswald, and their manager John Smith, talking in the clubhouse after the latter’s ejection from the previous night’s game was not easily believed. «Do you think I’m lying?!»

«Exaggerating, maybe; lying, not entirely,» a pitcher replied in a halting Spanish he clearly picked up in a classroom. «Javier, I hate to tell you this, but they **_despise_** each other. Why would they joke about being Mom and Dad? That sounds like flirting.»

«Hey, I know flirting when I see it, and that was flirting, even if they don’t realize it was.» Javier saw their manager head out of his office and motioned for his fellow athletes to drop the subject for a moment. Once the coast was clear, he started up again. «I’m telling you: they’re going to be dating by the end of the season.»

«Nah,» an outfielder scoffed. «They act like my aunt and uncle, and the two of them never should have gotten married to begin with.»

“What are you talking about?” The small group glanced over and saw the Japanese interpreter staring at them curiously. “I can tell you’re talking about Smith—what’s going on?”

“Nothing,” the pitcher said, rolling his eyes. “Javier thinks that Smith and Oswald are going to be an item by the end of the season.”

“I’m surprised they haven’t had hate-sex yet,” Javier admitted. They watched as the interpreter explained what was going on to their teammate and felt slightly uncomfortable as the two men discussed quickly in rapid-fire Japanese. Something was hilarious, it seemed, and it wasn’t clear as to what.

“Well, Makoto has to side with Javier on this one,” the interpreter smirked. “Smith and Oswald are perfect for one another. He says if they were in Japan, he would try to figure out how to set them up.”

“Impossible,” the outfielder said, “trust me on this one. He’s old enough to be her dad.”

“Uh, you don’t know how much the Japanese love that older man and younger woman stuff. Attractive older men are a _thing_ there, and I’ve seen more than one female reporter make eyes at Smith… not to mention a couple men.”

“Just because it’s a thing in fiction doesn’t mean that _they’re_ a thing.”

“Bae-toh,” Makoto said. He explained himself to the interpreter, who continued on for him.

“He wants you to bet on it,” he translated. “If you’re so confident, then put your money where your mouth is and bet.”

“Bae-toh,” Makoto grinned.

“If my paw-paw can kick your granddad’s ass in war, I can kick your ass in a friendly bet,” a catcher laughed. He took his wallet from his locker and pulled out a twenty, slapping it down on the bench. “Our manager John Smith and general manager Clara Oswald will not so much as _hug_ by the season’s end; any takers?”

The clubhouse simply _erupted_ in bae-tohs.

* * *

Silence.

Dead, suffocating _silence_.

Smith and Oswald stood in front of the room, both shocked at what had just happened. After some casual banter, they had _kissed_ in front of them. The lack of ire between them was welcome, the straight-out flirting was encouraged, but kissing… even if it _had_ been a quick peck, it was as if the entire world was turned upon its head.

Oswald had tried to look Smith in the eyes afterwards, yet sprinted out soon as she did. It wasn’t long before the money started being swapped and the laughter began. Smith took off not long after her, with his second in command attempting to keep things going.

“Alright, alright, let’s keep things in order,” Jimmy said from the front of the room. The bench coach fluffed out the stats report Oswald had just delivered and put on his best manager face. “Now, it looks like the road Miss Oswald projects for post-break is going to be a tough one—doable, but tough… come on, guys. _Focus_!” He groaned in frustration at the team, as they seemingly ignored him.

“C’mon, Stalkingwolf—you know how much we’ve got riding on this,” Javier said.

“No, we bae-toh! I maykoo ryekuh kingu!”

“ _Tomare, Makoto-san_ ; work first and all this stuff later.”

“Let the man ‘ _make like king_ ’ for a sec,” a catcher said with a laugh. “You’re just sore because you aren’t making anything yourself.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Jimmy frowned. He got out his own wallet and paid up a couple dollars to those whom he owed money. “We settle all the bets and then get going. Deal?”

“Hey! Someone needs to get a hold of Alex! He owes me a ten-spot!” someone else shouted.

It wasn’t likely they were going to get anything done… not until Smith returned.


End file.
